The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(76)
The steely edge in his voice told her that he meant it.
Then another thought hit her. “Was this bawd Kitty Barnes?”
“No, I met her a year later.”
By the way his eyes shuttered, she could tell that he wouldn’t say more about it. And a part of her didn’t want to know. Wanted to keep that ugliness buried where it belonged.
“What happened to your mama?” she ventured.
“She died when I was sixteen.”
“Did you forgive her?”
“For what?”
“Um, for all of it?” She blinked at him. “Turning to drink. Depending on you to take care of her.” Forcing you to make a choice no child should have to make. “Weren’t you angry at her?”
“None of it was her fault,” came his startling reply. “She was a victim of her circumstance, and she did the best she could with what she had. She taught me to do the same. So, no, I wasn’t angry at her. I loved her.”
Listening to his matter-of-fact accounting, Rosie felt a shift inside her. An undertow of understanding that challenged her perceptions. For so long, she’d raged at being a victim: of her birth, of Draven, of Coyner… even of the ton. Life had been unfair to her—yet how much worse had things been for Andrew?
Despite that, he didn’t rail at fate. He didn’t wallow in self-pity. He didn’t act out in reckless desperation.
No, he had loved and taken care of the mama who’d failed him. He’d defied all odds to become one of the most successful businessmen in all of London. And he’d gone to extraordinary lengths to protect Rosie.
Her throat swelled. She needed time to sort the chaotic thoughts in her head, the lessons to be gleaned by new insights. But she did know one thing.
She smoothed a bronze lock from his forehead. “You’re a strong man, Andrew Corbett—and a good one. I’m so lucky that you’re my lover.”
His gaze heated. “I’m the lucky one, sweetheart.”
“Thank you for tonight.” She smiled tremulously at him. “For trusting me with the truth and being honest with me. For teaching me to be honest with myself.”
He responded with a kiss. One simmering with passion and deep undercurrents of emotion. By the time he raised his head, she was panting for him.
“Again?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the slope of her cheekbone.
Her pussy fluttered. As did her heart. How she craved this man.
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You’re going to kill me, you know.”
“Can you think of a better way to greet the hereafter?” With great daring, she ran her hands over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, down the marble-hard ridges of his backside and was rewarded by the fierce rise of his erection against her thigh.
“By all means,” he said huskily, “let us find le petit mort together.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie awoke the next morning to find herself alone. After the decadent night of lovemaking, Andrew had escorted her home in the wee hours, carried her to her bedchamber, and tucked her into bed. She had immediately fallen into a deep sleep and wasn’t sure if he’d stayed. Rolling over to see if she could sniff out his delicious scent on the sheets, she saw a note and box on the pillow next to hers. Sitting up, she unfolded the paper.
Sunshine (the note read),
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. In lieu, I’ve left you a small memento. I hope you will think of me, as my thoughts will undoubtedly be of you. Until tonight. —A.
Dreamily, Rosie pressed the letter to her bosom. Andrew made her feel like the most special lady in all the world. She picked up the blue velvet box, wondering what he’d gotten her this time. She smiled to herself. Thus far, his unconventional gifts had included gingerbread and a pistol; what would he surprise her with now?
She lifted the lid—and her breath lodged in her throat. Goodness.
The necklace was the most exquisite she’d ever seen. Cast in white gold, it took the shape of flowing vines and delicate leaves, all of it encrusted with brilliant diamonds. The centerpiece was a cluster of blooming flowers, their shape unmistakably those of primroses. Three large diamonds, over a carat each, were suspended from the blossoms like sparkling dewdrops.
When her lover had a mind to give a gift, he truly gave a gift. She ran a fingertip over the stunning piece; she couldn’t wait for her period of mourning to be over so that she could wear it.
As much as she wanted to stay in bed and gawk over the necklace, she had a busy day ahead of her. She glanced at the bedside clock—and gave a little shriek. Heavens, she only had two hours to get ready for the meeting with Lady Charlotte! She hurtled out of bed, ringing for Odette.
Thanks to her maid’s efficiency, she was suitably groomed by the time Emma came to pick her up. Her hair was parted in the middle, curls upswept, a few left to frame her face. She’d worn a stylish black taffeta with a V-shaped neckline, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and full skirts.
Rosie and her entourage soon arrived at the dowager’s house, a modest abode on the fringes of Mayfair. She waited patiently as her sisters negotiated with their husbands. The men wanted to escort them inside; the ladies said a male presence would hamper the interview (Rosie had to agree). Finally, after whispered back-and-forth negotiations, the men agreed to wait outside on one condition: if their wives didn’t emerge in an hour, they would personally go in and carry them out.